Quiver
by BlueDecembers19
Summary: In an instant I have my arrow notched and pointed at his chest. Peeta throws his knife and I shoot without thinking, with only the cold, hard instinct that I am used to. Without realising he's thrown his knife away from me. My arrow shudders as he falls back onto the hard earth. It quivers as I fall onto the ground in horror, the weight of what I have done pressing down upon me.


**Quiver**

**Summary: And in an instant I have my arrow notched and pointed at his chest. Peeta throws his knife and I shoot without thinking, with only the cold, hard instinct that I am used to. Without realising that he's thrown his knife backwards, away from me. My arrow shudders as he falls back onto the hard earth. It quivers and I fall back onto the ground in horror, the weight of what I have done pressing down upon me.**

**A/N: I can't quite remember where the plot for this story came from but **_**I think **_**it was when I was reading something **_**Hunger Games**_** related and I suddenly thought: what would it be like if Katniss hadn't hesitated before shooting Peeta? So I wrote this. It had stayed as one paragraph (the summary paragraph) for weeks before I sat down and made myself finish it. I get a lot of ideas for stories during family dinners and I just drift off because the adults are talking about something boring or about how I read way too much and I just daydream and mentally write stories. **

**Also, I don't usually write in first person so this is kind of new for me so tell me if it sounds weird or too melodramatic or something. My English teacher tells me that sometimes I write too melodramatically and I agree with him. I wrote it in first person as the actual books are in Katniss's point of view and it was interesting to see if I could capture her 'voice' in my writing. I also wrote it in present tense because for some reason I think it projects/displays more emotion but maybe that's just my imagination.**

**Okay, so now I'm rambling on and on and most of you probably haven't bothered reading this but that's okay. So um, enjoy the story I guess. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Hunger Games**_** – Suzanne Collins does. **

* * *

**Part I**

My arrow is notched in a moment and I loosen it with a resounding twang. It arches with a deadly grace before impact. Dead center. There are no vengeful feelings in me, just pity. The cannon sounds – a sound of death, but in this instant, it is a sound of freedom, liberation, safety. Cato's fall means our survival. That's how it is in this twisted, dystopian society.

Elation. Exhilaration. Relief. Disbelief. That's what I feel in this moment; Cato is dead, they are all dead besides Peeta and me. We are safe. At last. These feelings are so strong it takes me a few moments to realise and by that time Peeta's already looking at me with confusion etched into his features; confusion and horrified truth dawning upon him.

"What's happening?" he asks, his voice cracking with exhaustion and confusion. "We've won, haven't we? Why aren't the announcements coming up?" His brow furrows in bewilderment.

I don't know and I tell him just that. He grips my hand and we shoot bemused glances at the hidden cameras around the arena; _what's going on? _We ask silently. _Answer us._ We demand mutely. I can almost feel the perplexed hum of the audience who are no doubt glued to their screens by now. The tension in the air is tangible.

He coughs and I shoot him a worried look. He is losing blood rapidly and the blood is blossoming across his makeshift bandages, his life seeping out and soaking the cloth. Peeta's complexion is pale and waxy. "Maybe we have to move away from the scene of the last tributes death," he hypothesises.

I don't remember that rule but it's worth a shot – anything is worth a shot now. I snake my arm around his waist and he leans against me as he hobbles painfully along. I can feel his weakly beating pulse and wonder, hope, pray that he will be able to make it to our destination. Each beat on his deteriorating heart reminds of the arena cannons. Twenty four, twenty three, twenty two, twenty one. Dying tributes, one by one.

The irony hits me in the stomach and for a moment I can't breathe. Each cannon fired brings us closer to safety, to victory but each cannon-beat of his heart brings him closer to his imminent death – so why isn't the victory fanfare sounding? Why are they not pronouncing us victors? Why are they not saving Peeta?

"Almost… there…" he wheezes and I catch him before he collapses. We've reached the edge of the lake now and we settle ourselves on the soft, marshy soil and wait. I turn my head and I see the slipping sun glint on the reflective surface of the Cornucopia – a golden boat on a sea of grass ringed, surrounded by a battalion of tall pines.

A soft breeze picks up and I can hear mockingjays in the distance whistling Rue's melody. A hang my head so the cameras can't see my tear filled eyes, to the audience it just seems as if I am taking a brief rest in the interlude of peace. The grove of trees whisper to us in the waft of wind and they rustle a comforting symphony. Peeta rests his head on my lap; his blond hair is streaked with dirt and clotted with congealed blood. His voice is barely a whisper now, "Katniss…" he says, "I love you."

I can almost hear the delighted sighs of the Capitol women who still believe the 'star-crossed lovers' crap. I guess our performance has been convincing but I wonder why Peeta is still carrying on with it – after all, we've won – haven't we? But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I hear Haymitch's drunken, slurring drawl. _Honey, keep it up. Haven't you got any brains?_ I mentally curse at my imagined Haymitch voice.

I gulp a breath and peer down at him. His eyes are flickering closed and I'm not sure if he hears my murmur but I'm sure the hidden microphones have picked up every whisper. _I love you too Peeta. _

And that's when the fanfare sounds.

Peeta's eyes jerk open. He motions for me to help him stand and we stagger up clutching onto one another.

**Claudius Templesmith's voice booms into the arena. "Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor." ***

I stagger back a couple of steps in shock. I can barely think and I can see my expression mirrored perfectly on Peeta's face. His lips are parted slightly as if trying to say something and his eyes are wide in shock.

I reach out a hand towards him and lean forward slightly; I don't know why; my brain hasn't caught on to the situation yet. But almost in slow motion, I see, with my heightened sensitivity – a hunter's, a predator's senses – Peeta reaching for his waist where his knife is strapped. I feel betrayal coursing through my veins as he raises his knife, up and up…

And in an instant I have my arrow notched and pointed at his chest. He throws his knife and I shoot without thinking, with only the cold, hard instinct that I am used to. Without realising that he's thrown his knife backwards, away from me. My arrow shudders as he falls back onto the hard earth. It quivers and I fall back onto the ground in horror, the weight of what I have done pressing down upon me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games; District Twelve tribute: Katniss Everdeen!" Claudius Templesmith's voice resonates around the arena and it echoes in my head as the hovercraft carries me up, up and away from the arena. I can see Peeta's form gradually disappearing and the silver, glimmering arrow – my arrow fade away. Everything is fading as I collapse onto the stark white floor of the hovercraft, into a nightmare filled slumber…

* * *

I wake to the buzz of my Capitol stylists; their twittering accents sending shooting pain spiking through my head. Their high-pitched voices with the lilt at the end of each word irritate me more than ever and I jerk up, swing my legs over the stretcher bed and run. I ignore the gasps of indignation and shock and the chirping of their gossip.

My head feels strangely foggy, my memory is patchy. I feel as if a child has started putting together a puzzle of my life; my experiences but lost interest halfway leaving me with these gaps. I know my name; I remember Prim, Gale and Peeta – what happened to Peeta? The hard, barren whiteness of the walls does nothing to help and I would have curled up into a ball with my head to my chest if I could be certain no one would find me. But I'm not. So I go on.

My feet lead me without a particular destination. I wander through the labyrinthine halls and corridors until I am too tired to go on so I enter a room at random and collapse, exhausted onto the cold, unforgiving floor.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" a snide drawl interrupts me. The voice is familiar and I push myself up on my arms to see.

"Katniss Everdeen," Haymitch's face is disfigured by a gaunt and surprisingly sober smile. "_Darling,_ congratulations on your win. _The seventy fourth victor of the Hunger Games; Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!_" he quotes – his voice, his words are dripping with sarcasm and his guarded gray eyes are humorless.

Gray. Silver. Arrows. And that's when the memories come back – a tidal wave of forgotten moments. But the one I cannot forget is the moment I killed Peeta. The resounding thud of my arrow echoes in my head as I turn in my heel and stalk out, Haymitch's calculating slate eyes boring through my thin, hospital shift. I don't look back.

* * *

Red. The first colour I see as I wake yet again. My back aches and my face feels heavy, wet – clotted by some foreign substance.

I lift my hand to dab gingerly at my face when I see the designs painted upon my nails. Flames. Tiny, perfect, flickering flames. I lift my head and survey my dress. It is a dark, rich, bloody read, streaked with black. Grey ash and blazing fire. Red of burning embers. Black of quelled flames. The dress is padded to hide my painfully thin body and enriching it with non-pre-existing curves. It flares out from below my waist and when I move, it rustles like the sound of flames leaping from tree to tree. This can only be the work of Cinna.

Then he appears. Dressed in his usual black pants and shirt, he seems to appear from nowhere. Cinna's green eyes reflect my gaunt face painted with makeup and his gold eyeliner sparkles. He doesn't say anything and neither do I.

Until the silence is unbearable. He clears his throat. "Your interview is in five minutes."

Of course, the interview with Caesar Flickerman I have forgotten about – the tradition where we all sit and watch a montage of the important events of the games. "Uh, thanks." I manage.

He nods and gives me a small smile. "Well, good luck," he says before exiting as quickly as he had come.

I take a deep breath and steady myself. _Here I go_.

* * *

The Capitol broadcast music jolts me back to reality as I wait behind the curtain for my interview. I am alone, just me, the empty walls and the television. They are broadcasting the reactions of each district and all I can think is this must be some sort of torture they are inflicting upon me. Each district flickers by; one, two, three, five, eleven.

And twelve.

The people of District Twelve; my family, my friends, my home are staring at the screens with a combination of horror and triumph almost – frozen on their faces. They don't know what to think and their contrasting emotions scare me.

But the thing that strikes me the hardest is their silence

Empty, excruciating silence.

* * *

The curtain rises painfully slowly, its rich red and gold brocade makes me sick. The audience is roaring with delight and chanting my name. I totter unsteadily on my heels and concentrate on one fixed point in the distance – Caesar Flickerman's powder blue hair. The lights flash from all directions and the screaming of the crowd fade for a moment as I lose myself. Then reality flashes back and my senses are heightened, colours are brighter and sounds are excruciatingly loud.

Caesar Flickerman stands with a warm smile if his face and guides me to my seat. "May I present," he says, "Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire."

That triggers it; the catalyst for a montage of moments bombards me; Peeta's last expression, a glimmer of silver; a glint of gold, Cinna's disappointment, the silence of the people of district twelve. And Haymitch. "The girl on fire… fire… fire… fire…"

The spark that I have lit – quenched. Extinguished. Smothered.

Quelled.

_What have I done?_

* * *

***A direct quote from the book (**_**The Hunger Games**_**) so that bolded quote does not belong to me. **

* * *

**Wow, that took me a while to write. I'm quite busy at the moment so I've been using my spare time to write.**

**So I decided to write that in 'American' spelling because **_**The Hunger Games**_** was written by an American author. Trust me, it was annoying and my spellchecker kept changing words like humor to humour for example. Right now the word 'humor' is underlined in red and it is really annoying me. **

**Also, I seem to be killing off a lot of important characters in my stories. My other story **_**Let Me Go**_** – a **_**Percy Jackson**_** story is the same. My next story (hopefully…) will be happier… **

**I couldn't decide on a title so I decided to name it **_**Quiver**_** from one of the words I used and its connection to arrows (a quiver of arrows). This was originally planned as a one-shot but I found that I wanted to add more and more so it ended up becoming longer than expected so I guess I'll make it into a two-shot. **

**Thank you so much for reading and also constructive criticism is appreciated and very welcome.**

**Thanks again,**

**Blue **


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